So it's not porn then...

I'll never forget trying to explain the men's market to a grizzled old journo around the time that FHM first overtook Cosmopolitan in the UK. Like most men of a certain age, he couldn't really get his head round the fact that the world was changing. It wasn't just that publishers had worked out a new formula (and lest we forget the first issues of FHM and Loaded had men on the cover) it was the beginning of a brave new world, fuelled on reassuringly expensive Belgian beer and addictive alcopops.

The reason that men's mags suddenly took off when they did was more simple.

Publishers had been researching new magazine ideas in every market since publishing arrived on the desktop. From canal boats to keeping tropical fish, new magazines were cropping up everywhere. In November 1986, Chris Dawn's Bird Watching magazine finally went full colour to the cheers of twitchers everywhere.

But as the first group of nineties adults emerged from the spotty awfulness of puberty into a world post Germain Greer, there were suddenly more single men in the world than ever before. Single men well into their twenties who were more likely than ever to be living with Mum and Dad, rather than buying a two up, two down with the girl next door.

Women's lib had opened the doors for women to go off to college, start careers, all those things we rightly now take for granted. And with more time on their hands and more money in their pockets than ever before, the lad was born. Ask Oasis. Or Calvin Klein or Ben Sherman.

FHM and Loaded, both designed for the men who knew better were actually written for the boy who knew nothing. Once they decided to put a famous girl on the cover being naughty (Ooh Miss Jones!) it was all on for young and old. Light blue touch paper etc...

Fast forward to 2008. The trailblazers are still on the newsagents shelf, just, although they've been overtaken by the new weeklies. Faster, cheaper, better? The industry soldiers on, like it did with Smash Hits, Patches, Blue Jean and The Face.

The lads have moved on. My money says they're not ever coming back...

What's it worth?

As the world goes to hell in a handcart, I heard some interesting thoughts on value over the last few days.

The first, talking over dinner about Sydney property prices (hey! don't you?) was that the true value of a house selling at auction wasn't what it sold for but the underbidder's last bid, ie: the next lowest price someone was willing to pay.

Then today, after ACP's follies were splashed all over the pages of the papers (hot off the press, "Zoo, Ralph and FHM possibly similar" shocker), I heard someone muse that magazines like Cosmopolitan and Cloe weren't worth as much as they used to be.

Finally, watching Bloomberg, or Shouting TV as we call it chez nous, one of the more rational commentators hosed down the fires of Wall Street, with a simple one liner that "we're just returning to a world where value is based on saleable assets".

Here's a simple lesson. What it's worth, be it a hotel room, a Porsche or a once famous merchant bank is simply what someone will pay to take it off your hands. Right now.

Sobering thoughts. Undeniable truths.